The Witch of Winterfell
by lizziebennetgonesolo
Summary: Ana Stark, the second daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark, would much rather be a Maester than a lady; but even if that were possible, fate would still have had other plans for her. Gifted with forgotten magic by the Old gods, she acts as a guardian for her little brother, Bran, on his journey beyond the Wall. How will her presence affect the fate of Westeros?
1. Ana Stark

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Game of Thrones, and neither do I own the ASOIAF series. They are the property of HBO and George R. R. Martin. No copyright infringement is intended, and I do not profit monetarily from the publishing of this (or any) story on this site.

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 **A/N:** **Hello all! So, I am trying my hand at one of the popular fanfic GoT tropes: namely, the OC!Stark sibling. I've tried to bring something new to the table with this in terms of the character's personality, her ambitions, and the journey she takes. The pairing is fairly unusual too, as far as I'm aware.**

 **This fic is rated M because... well... it's Game of Thrones we're talking about here. Do I really need to say more? XD There will be profanity, graphic violence, sexual content (though to what extent, I haven't quite decided), mature subject matter, etc. Read ahead at your own discretion.**

 **A quick note of clarification: as I have not yet read the ASOIAF series (much to my regret** **—I plan to rectify that ASAP), I will be using the HBO series universe canon as a basis for the story, although there will be bits and pieces of information unique to the books thrown into the mix. I like to do my research XD**

 **Okay! Without further ado, allow me to introduce you to Ana Stark.**

 **(P. S. Ana—in this case—is pronounced "AWN-uh" rather than "ANN-uh".)**

* * *

The sweet scent of melting beeswax wafted through the air, mingling with the musk of old parchment. Ana breathed in the heady, familiar smell and exhaled slowly in contentment. Aside from perhaps the glass garden, the Library Tower was her favourite place in all of Winterfell; for there was very little that Ana loved better than poring over a good book and devouring every morsel of knowledge that its pages offered her. It had been that way ever since she'd begun reading on her own at the tender age of five years.

Ana and Sansa had come into the world four years after their brother, Robb, and half-brother, Jon Snow. The girls were twins, but if it weren't for their shared nameday, few would have guessed it; for both in appearance and in personality, the two were very different, something that only grew more evident with age. For one thing, where Sansa's appearance was all Tully, Ana's was predominantly Stark, right down to that innate solemnity that those who favoured the Stark looks all seemed to share. For another, where Sansa giggled, cried, and fussed as a babe, Ana was a quiet, undemanding, little thing.

Old Nan tended to the twins while they were in their earliest years, but by the age of three, Septa Mordane began to have more of a role in the girls' lives. Their mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, originally of House Tully, had hired her to see to the girls' education in the gentle arts, but also in such things as literature and history. But before they could begin learning any of that, the girls, of course, had to learn to read. To that effect, Mordane took to reading to the Stark twins aloud, the two of them perched on her lap with the book in question propped in front of them so that they may eventually begin to follow along with the words. Sansa was the elder of the sisters by five minutes and "a ridiculous twist of fate," as Ana was later known to gripe; but in spite of that, it had been Ana who had picked up the skill of reading first.

In fact, Ana had made her ability readily known when, one quiet evening not long after her fifth nameday, the girl had interrupted Mordane's rendition of one of countless poems about Jonquil to scold the septa for reading too slowly. The complaint had been met with a chorus of chuckles, as the three had had an audience that night. Much of the family was gathered in the Library Tower, what with Lord Stark perusing accounts with Maester Luwin at one of the oak tables, Lady Stark embroidering the cuffs of a newly sewn gown on the sofa, and Robb and Jon roughhousing playfully in front of the gated hearth. Only Arya and Bran were absent, both in the nursery and either asleep or being tended to by Old Nan; for Rickon, the youngest of the Stark children, had not yet been conceived at that point in time.

At Ana's outburst, the septa suggested that the girl read the poem aloud herself, thinking to silence her protests. Instead, the septa ended up sitting stunned as Ana did just that, pronouncing every word of the ballad properly in her crisp, solemn, little voice—and even pausing at all the right places. By the time the girl had finished, all the adults in the room had stopped what they were doing and were staring at the five-year-old child in disbelief.

Immediately thereafter, Mordane surmised that the girl _must_ be reciting from memory, and so flipped through the pages of the poetry edition to find a sonnet that Ana had never seen before. Yet, when she asked the girl to try to read it, certain she would fail, Mordane's eyes had bulged as again, the girl relayed the poem aloud with remarkably little difficulty. The septa's eyes had slipped up to meet the awed gaze of Luwin, and in one silent exchange between the two, a decision was made.

* * *

The next day, before the children woke, the septa and the Maester approached both Lord and Lady of Winterfell as they were breaking their fast in the Great Hall.

Lord Eddard had smiled knowingly at the pair as they came forward to the high table. Cutting right to the chase, he asked, "This is about Ana, isn't it?"

"It is, my lord," replied Mordane, a small, chagrined smile on her lips. "Her performance last night was quite impressive. So much so, in fact, that Maester Luwin and I have conferred upon the subject of her education and we wish to propose a slightly... _unorthodox_ idea."

Lady Catelyn's brow furrowed slightly at the notion, but she didn't protest when her husband gestured for them to continue.

Luwin was the one to continue. "Septa Mordane and I believe that, while Ana should of course continue to learn the gentle arts with Sansa under the septa's tutelage, it might also be a good idea for me to teach her as well."

Lord Eddard nodded, as if this confirmed what he had suspected, but Lady Catelyn's eyes had grown round and wide.

"And what exactly do you propose to teach her, Maester Luwin?" demanded the Lady of Winterfell, her uncertainty rendering the question sharp.

"My lady," Luwin answered soothingly, "to begin with, I would simply help Ana select some more challenging literature to read on her own, and I would answer her questions about the meaning of certain words or phrases she has yet to encounter. It would not interfere with my duties, as I could attend to the accounts and such until she requires my help. We would focus almost singularly on advancing her literary skills. Although," the Maester mused, and Catelyn quirked an eyebrow at the change of tone, "with your permission, I might also gradually introduce instruction in the areas of botany and medicine."

Lady Catelyn pursed her mouth skeptically, but her husband appeared to be open to the idea, his brow furrowed and his eyes curious as he pondered the suggestion. All the while, Septa Mordane nodded.

"I think that's a good idea," remarked the septa, giving a small, crooked smile. "Ana and Sansa both love flowers, but whereas Sansa adores them because they're pretty, Ana values them because they are useful." The septa's smile widened and the look in her eyes grew distant, lost in reflection. "She's a quiet child, but when she does speak, she's always asking questions; and when I can't answer them, she asks for books that can. It won't be long before I'm unable to satisfy her curiosity. She still has much to learn in the area of ladies' courtesies—I can be of help to her there. But Maester Luwin would be a much better fit when it comes to the other subjects. Besides, my lady," Mordane addressed Lady Catelyn, "it is not unheard of for a young lady to receive instruction in these subjects. Unusual, yes, but not unheard of. And the skills she would learn would almost certainly be useful at some point in the future."

The septa's words did their job; Catelyn looked far less concerned than she had before, and her eyes now held the same thoughtful quality as her husband's. The couple exchanged a long, loaded glance. Finally, Lady Catelyn nodded, and Lord Eddard smiled, pleased.

"All right, Maester Luwin, Septa Mordane," agreed the Lord of Winterfell. "It's a sound idea, and I think it will bring our daughter happiness. We trust the two of you can work out the scheduling between yourselves?"

The Maester and the septa both smiled, having already discussed and determined said scheduling. "Of course, my lord," replied Mordane.

"Then see it done," Lord Eddard declared, and Lady Catelyn once again nodded her approval of the decision, the corners of her mouth turned ever so slightly upwards.

* * *

And so, for several years after that fateful decision was made, Ana thrived under the instruction of Maester Luwin. She read as much as she could, soaking up everything she learnt and storing it away for future use. Thanks to her formidable memory, Ana's vocabulary quickly grew to be extensive, and not long after she'd begun her lessons with the Maester, the subject of her questions shifted away from the meaning of different words and phrases and towards clarification around the actual content of the books she was reading.

Ana began to ask things like, _If these plants have similar properties, could one not be substituted for another in a remedy?_ or _If this historical figure was familiar with this stratagem at this point in time, why didn't they make use of it?_ Luwin, although initially (albeit pleasantly) surprised by the sophistication of her questions, endeavoured to answer her as thoroughly as possible, and young Ana hung off of his every word. After some time, he began to quiz her on her knowledge, a challenge that the girl was eager to accept. When he tested her, Ana did well across the board, but she showed a particular aptitude for history, foreign languages (different Valyrian dialects, mainly, as it was with them that Maester Luwin was most familiar), botany, and medicine. In fact, her grasp of those last two was so strong that Maester Luwin, full of pride for his pupil, decided (after obtaining the joint permission of her lord father and lady mother) to introduce her to the practicum of both areas.

Not wanting to scare the child away by moving onto something too challenging too quickly (though he was seriously beginning to think that such a thing was possible), Luwin started Ana off with the more pleasant hands-on experience of the two available options. The Maester took her to Winterfell's glass garden, where all of the castle's produce and medicinal plants were grown, and set her to work identifying the different plants from memory. When that proved, unsurprisingly, to be an easy task for Ana, Luwin decided to further enrich her training. He then guided Ana plant-by-plant through the rows and showed her how to tend to each of them, whether flower, fruit, berry, legume, gourd, green, or herb. Occasionally, one of Winterfell's gardeners would interject a useful tip as teacher and student passed by, for which they both were grateful.

Ana took to the work like a duck to water, and so too did the plants take to her. Their health prospered under her reverent care, as—the Maester observed with no lack of amusement—the girl was more affectionate towards the plants than she was towards most people (of whom, with few exceptions, Ana was invariably suspicious until they proved their trustworthiness). When Ana thought no one was around to hear her, she often hummed sweet melodies to the flora as she went along, clipping and coaxing and watering them. The few times that the Maester caught her doing this, he thought he saw the plants actually perk up when Ana touched them, and one time—for the briefest of moments—he could have sworn he saw a flower blossom at her touch.

When that'd happened, the Maester had just shaken his head, chastising himself for imagining such a thing. He must be getting old, he'd teased himself, if his vision could deceive him so. His flight of fancy had to have been born out of surprise at hearing Ana willingly carrying a tune, even if she was simply humming it; for it was a well-known fact that the girl was painfully shy when it came to raising her voice in song, as she outright refused Mordane whenever the septa tried to convince her to sing a hymn with her twin. To his knowledge, Ana's singing voice had yet to grace a single ear at Winterfell, and yet there she was, her hums reverberating off of the glass walls sheltering the garden.

When there was little more Ana could learn about tending to the plants, though, Maester Luwin decided that she was ready to engage in the more practical aspects of medicine. Ana had not shown any tendency towards squeamishness to date, he reasoned, and she had a nurturing way about her when tending to the ill plants, always seeming to be able to salvage ones that the gardeners thought beyond hope. Perhaps, the Maester thought, she could have the same effect on a human patient.

He introduced her to medicine with lessons concerning the preparation of remedies from the very plants she cultivated in the garden. Under the Maester's supervision, Ana learnt how to create different oils, syrups, and draughts, and once she had mastered their preparation, the Maester further instructed Ana on how to brew milk of the poppy, moon tea, and even Essence of Nightshade. As it was, she was so talented in this area that Maester Luwin, in a fit of indulgence—and after securing an oath from the girl to only use such knowledge ethically and to never tell her parents that he had broached such a subject with her—secretly taught Ana how to brew and distill a select number of poisons, and of course, their antidotes. Ana committed everything she learnt to memory, determined not to forget a single remedy or a single poison. Each and every one could prove useful in the future, the precocious little girl knew, and so she couldn't— _she_ _mustn't_ —forget them.

From there, Maester and would-be apprentice moved on to the more gruesome side of practical medicine—tending to the wounds and maladies of actual, live patients. This was an area where, though she was well-versed in its theory, Ana struggled a fair amount. For one thing, many of the patients who were brought to see Maester Luwin did not want a young girl to witness their affliction, much less trust her tend to it, and so it was difficult for Ana to gain experience, especially when she was still uncertain of her abilities and it showed on her face.

In addition to that, when it came to treating maladies, it took Ana a while to recover from what could be deemed a baptism by fire; for, after a skirmish with a group of rogue Ironborn raiders, one young soldier had been brought to the infirmary at Winterfell screaming and cursing from the agony of his condition. It just so happened that the youth had gangrene, a kind of necrosis that rotted and blackened the flesh and sometimes necessitated amputation of a limb depending on the advancement of the disease. In the case of the young soldier, treatment with maggots to remove the infected flesh would not be adequate; instead, amputation of the right leg just past the knee was required to allow for even a chance of his survival.

Maester Luwin had wanted Ana to leave while he performed the procedure, but Ana had insisted on staying, stubbornly telling the Maester that if she was going to learn to heal, she was going to see such things at some point or other. It was statements like those, Luwin reflected, that had earned her the moniker of "little grandmother" from Old Nan, for they smacked of a practicality and degree of insight far maturer than was expected of a girl of her age.

However, despite her words and the sentiment behind them, Ana had never seen anything even approaching the severity or the gruesomeness of necrosis or amputation. So, somewhat predictably, when Maester Luwin had cut into the putrid flesh of the youth's leg and the young man began to thrash despite being unconscious and dosed heavily with milk of the poppy, Ana had had to rush to a basin at the opposite end of the infirmary, barely making it there before she retched up her breakfast and more. Once she had finished, however, the girl had disposed of her sick, thoroughly rinsed out her mouth and washed her hands, found a clean, thin strip of linen typically used for bandage, and returned to the Maester's side with the cloth tied around her head in order to cover her nose and mouth. She then forced herself to watch, the visible portion of her face pale and greenish, as the Maester completed the surgery.

When Luwin caught the odd glance of Ana as he tended to the young man, he could tell that she was sickened by the sight of the gangrenous infection and the exposed bone and flesh; but the girl seemed determined nonetheless to see the experience through to the end. He wondered why, but ultimately put it down to her pride. Ana, he knew, hated to back down from a challenge even if she was outmatched by it; perhaps this was one such case, Luwin mused.

In reality, though, Ana had stayed because she felt she owed at least that much to the soldier. If he actually had to experience the wretched process, the girl thought, then she could not be a coward. She would be there for him, even if he would not know it (for it was possible even then that the young man might die). So, Ana remained in the infirmary, wiping her patient's brow and occasionally re-administering milk of the poppy as Maester Luwin worked.

Once the Maester had finished, he was called away to tend to some urgent matter of her Father's, leaving Ana to keep an eye on the unconscious soldier. Satisfied that the Maester was nowhere within eyesight or earshot, Ana approached her patient, pulling a chair over beside his cot so that she could sit by his side. When the soldier began to twitch in his sleep, Ana put her thumb on his chin to gently coax his mouth open. She then used a pipette to administer a few more droplets of milk of the poppy to the poor young man. When he still would not settle, but Ana knew she could not risk giving him any more of the sedative, she raised a hesitant hand and began to stroke the youth's flaxen locks away from his brow. The tenderness of the gesture seemed to sooth him, and, encouraged, Ana began to hum a melody for him as she would to the plants in the glass garden. It was a sad, gentle song called _Alysanne_ — Ana's favourite, despite its tragic nature—and as she hummed its chorus and caressed the man's hair, he slowly settled back into what looked to be a peaceful unconsciousness.

Ana removed her hand from the soldier's scalp and, vaguely aware that it was shaking, touched it to her cheek as she lowered her face into her palms. When she finally took her hands away again, she noted with distant surprise that her fingers were coated in salt water.

* * *

For a time after that incident, Ana grew less inclined to tend to patients directly, preferring to simply brew the remedies that Maester Luwin required to treat them. The Maester allowed her that solace, saddened that the girl had been put off and angry at himself for not exposing her to such things more gradually, but understanding all the same. In any case, Ana was still of great help to him; she kept the medicine cabinet stocked with everything that the patients needed and she continued to tend diligently to the inhabitants of the glass garden.

And all in all, since she'd begun her lessons with Maester Luwin, Ana had been quite happy. She was still very much a quiet, young girl, who when forced into social situations preferred to simply watch others' interactions rather than join in on them; but nonetheless, she was enjoying life, and it showed in her countenance. Her eyes were constantly alight with the joy of learning and the anticipation of her lessons; her small, close-lipped smiles came easily and sincerely; and she got along well with all of her siblings—even Sansa, with whom she ironically had the least in common among her brothers and sisters, aside from perhaps Robb.

Despite their differences, the two girls found ways to be kind to one another here and there. Once she'd begun her lessons in the glass garden, Ana took to bringing clippings of different flowers and sweet-smelling herbs to her twin, who would thank her and thread them into her fiery tresses or arrange them in vases, happily listening as her bookish sister told her what each plant was and what special, symbolic meanings they held. Furthermore, after she'd begun her apprenticeship in medicine and had acquired the necessary skills, Ana would even (if in a generous mood) mix perfumed bath oils for Sansa. She carefully chose pleasing combinations of what she'd learnt to be her sister's favourite scents, labouring over pots and cauldrons for hours until she was satisfied that her sister would be pleased. Each year, Ana usually saved complementary-smelling sets of the fine oils for Sansa's nameday gift; but regardless of the occasion for which she bestowed them on her sister, the thoughtful, handmade presents earned her Sansa's admiration and gratitude. In the same spirit, Ana's twin took to knitting and sewing her things that were useful for her studies: first soft, woolen gloves sans fingertips to keep the younger twin's hands warm and her fingers nimble when she was reading or writing in the cold, evening air; then, a series of finely embroidered linen bands and headscarves to help keep Ana's long, raven locks out of her face while she was performing her duties in the glass garden and the infirmary. Sansa even once made Ana a comfortable set of nurse's robes for her to wear while tending to patients so that she would truly look and feel at home in her day-to-day activities. The thoughtfulness of her sister's gestures touched Ana, as did Sansa's uncanny intuition when it came to considering what might be useful for her twin.

The two sisters still did not fully understand or relate to each other, but despite the odd bout of bickering, the little tokens of kindness that they exchanged were enough to keep their relationship on an even keel.

Somewhere in that same vein of casual love was the relationship between Ana and her eldest brother. Robb and Ana had a vaguely fond rapport, but in truth did not interact very often. Robb spent too much time in the training yard and Ana too much time in the Library Tower, glass garden, and infirmary for the pair to really spend much time during the day with each other; and their interests were so different that even when they were together at supper, they seldom spoke with one another beyond pleasantries. In fact, as time went on, Robb noticed his younger sister less and less. After all, Ana was fond of lurking silently in the shadows and observing, whereas Robb was often at the heart of whatever merriment occurred at gatherings and feasts.

Jon Snow, on the other hand, was quite used to staying out of sight in the shadows—or in other words, away from Lady Stark's disapproving stare—and as a result, he and Ana spent a good deal of time together avoiding the attention of others. They were as two spectres, at home in the dark, resigned to watch but not participate in the events playing out before them. The two did not speak much—it was not in either's nature to be particularly talkative—but rather took solace in the quiet, steadfast support they could offer each other. Whenever Jon was pushed to the sidelines by Lady Catelyn, Ana would silently join him, thankfully unnoticed by all the others (such was the convenience of being the oft-forgotten child); and whenever Theon Greyjoy called Ana "the witch of Winterfell" (having taken to viciously harping on the girl whenever he saw her after she'd accidentally walked in on him and a girl of the smallfolk he'd smuggled into Winterfell), Jon would jump to his half-sister's defence first with words, and when they would not suffice, with fists. It gave Ana no little satisfaction to see her tormentor be forcibly subdued by Jon, who also frequently fell victim of Theon's sharp tongue. Her half-brother seldom defended himself, used to the ridicule that one is sure to endure as a bastard, regardless of one's circumstances. But Ana? If Greyjoy had a single foul word to say against Ana in Jon's presence, the smug prat would have a few new bruises by the time the next morning rolled around—and he would find the balm for said bruises mysteriously absent from the infirmary cabinets if he went looking for it, too.

In any case, the bond that Ana and Jon shared only grew stronger with time, but the pair had always felt an innate sense of belonging with the other, a kinship. Ana sometimes wondered if that was simply born out of the fact that she and Jon looked far more like each other's siblings than they looked like the siblings of Robb or Sansa. Both of them had brown hair so dark that it verged on black, like that of their Uncle Benjen; they shared a pale skin tone and grayish eyes to offset it (although, admittedly, the gray differed in hue, Jon's being much darker than Ana's and holding none of the colour that tinted his half-sister's irises); and the two had features that exuded the stoicism that the Stark family line was known for, whereas Robb and Sansa took far more after the Tully side in looks and in temperament.

Still, her and Jon's physical resemblance was only a small part of their closeness, Ana knew; she just enjoyed her private speculation.

Of course, as time passed, there were new additions to the family in the forms of her younger siblings, Arya, Bran, and Rickon, all of whom Ana absolutely adored. She loved watching the three of them grow and learn, loved to watch their cherubic faces, their innocent joy, and their developing personalities.

Arya, for instance, was a little spitfire. If Ana had at any point thought that she and her twin were complete opposites, Arya had proven her wrong; because as her little sister grew older, Ana's personality seemed more and more like a midway point between those of Sansa and Arya. Ana would be lying if she said she didn't glean any amusement from watching them go at each other constantly, though it was often dampened when their mother made her act as the intermediary between the two. Nevertheless, Ana cherished Arya's bold spirit and her determination, and she admired the young girl for her dreams to become a warrior just as much as she worried for Arya's future because of them. The two sisters bonded over their unconventional vocations and the stories of female warriors that Ana always had ready for Arya: tales of Nymeria of the Rhoyne and Visenya Targaryen that left her little sister wide-eyed with wonder.

It also helped that Ana was viciously protective of anyone who dared mock the vivacious, young girl, much in the way that Jon was protective of Ana herself. For instance, when Ana had heard talk of Jeyne Poole calling her little sister "Arya Horseface," she'd slipped a tasteless laxative from the infirmary into the twit's evening tea when all the young ladies next shared a lesson with Septa Mordane. In the days following that lesson, Jeyne was unable to attend the schoolroom and titter as she normally did with Sansa; in fact, the steward's daughter had been so mortified by her condition that she turned down all visitors to her chambers while she was "ill."

Ana had not felt a smidgen of remorse over the affair—rather, quite the contrary. Of course, it helped that no one but Arya herself had suspected a thing of Ana, and that when Ana had confirmed her little sister's suspicions one afternoon in the infirmary, Arya had flung her arms around her sister's waist, fiercely grateful upon hearing the motive for her actions (and equally appreciative of her deviousness).

However, as much as Ana had a definite closeness with both Jon and Arya, her connection with Bran overshadowed both of those bonds.

The degree to which she and her little brother understood one another was eerie; they seemed to be able to communicate by mere glances, even when Bran had been naught but a babe. Perhaps even stranger: the two siblings had _never once_ fought or bickered—not even in the playful way of siblings. In their minds, such a thing was obvious: they'd never had due cause.

They were simply and positively enamoured of one another, their bond the purest and deepest platonic love that siblings could hope to share.

When Bran became agile enough to climb up the Library Tower without the use of the precarious stonework staircase that winded around its exterior, he'd often hop in through the window to visit Ana as she studied, seeming to sense through sheer instinct when she was or wasn't present. Ana called Bran "her little monkey" for the way he scaled Winterfell's walls, and it was a nickname that only she was permitted to use. His tales of his adventures on the rooftops easily delighted Ana, for unlike their mother, the girl somehow just _knew,_ just _felt_ deep within her heart that Bran would not—would _never_ —fall.

Many times, when he climbed to the library to join her, the two sat together at Ana's table, Bran perched on her lap with his head leaned back against her shoulder as he listened to his older sister recount her latest discovery to him, entranced by the marvel in her voice. And, on rare occasions, when she'd bolted the window shut and was completely certain that they were alone...and even then, only when he asked her very sweetly...Ana acquiesced to Bran's pleas, and she sang for her little brother.

Bran was the only person ever to have heard Ana's singing voice, and though he understood that she was shy about it and rather liked that it was a secret they alone shared, he couldn't help but feel it was a shame nonetheless. Because Ana's voice was magical, Bran knew. He'd never felt more well, safe, or at ease than he did when his beloved older sister was singing for him.

He particularly adored the way she intoned an old war song by the name of _The North Remembers._ It was a simple, epic melody that she'd discovered somewhat miraculously in the pages of a massive, ancient, history tome about the North, and a rich kind of pride seemed to emanate from her whenever its notes spilled from her lips. Bran found the tone enchanting.

In short, Ana and Bran were especially precious to one another, and there was little more to say about it than that.

And then, finally, there was Rickon: the little pup. All of the Stark siblings (Jon included, for Ana thought of him as such) doted on Rickon, what with him being the babe of the family. He was a sweet child, full of smiles, warm affection, and a constant awe for his surroundings. Ana sneaked him berries and plums from the glass garden when the gardeners weren't paying attention to her, covetous of his toothy, gleeful grins. He and Bran could be utter mischief when they so desired, and their antics brought Ana a great deal of laughter.

* * *

So, yes: between her tutelage under Maester Luwin and the rapports she'd developed with her siblings as the years crept past, Ana was content for much of her childhood. But all eras, as they say, come to an end; and hence, so did the era of young Ana's joy—in two distinct, painful blows.

* * *

I.

It was a chilly, overcast afternoon. Ana, at that point a young lady of ten years, was sitting at her normal table in the library, supposedly reading from a tome that detailed the earliest years of the Targaryen dynasty, a volume which she had already been through twice over. (In truth, she'd read her way through the entirety of Winterfell's library two years prior; such was her voraciousness when it came to literature.)

As Ana stared absently at a passage of text concerning Daenys the Dreamer, Maester Luwin sat across from her, making his way through the month's correspondence between Lord Stark and the other Northern lords, as well as the Night's Watch. The latter seemed absorbed in his task, but his student was much less focused than usual. Her eyes drifted constantly from the page she was supposed to be reading, a slight frown darkening her already serious expression.

Finally, she admitted defeat and, in an effort to refrain from disturbing her mentor, she gently closed the tome and made certain not to scrape the legs of her chair against the stone floor as she went to return the monstrous book to its shelf.

By the time she'd sat herself back down at the table, Ana's frown had become a scowl of consternation. She'd just realized that there was something rather important that she did not know, and the revelation was troubling to her on several levels.

"Maester Luwin," she began timidly, her tone telling of some weighty question looming over her mind.

"Yes, Ana?" he prompted expectantly. Despite his apparent preoccupation with the letters in front of him, the Maester had been aware of his pupil's uneasiness for some time. He'd simply been waiting for her to speak up when she was ready.

Said pupil sighed in frustration. "Why is it that I cannot find anything to read on the subject of female Maesters? I know that we do not have much in the way of information here at Winterfell about the Order of the Maesters, or the Citadel—or even just Oldtown!—but surely there would have been some mention of at least _one_ female Maester in what material we do have, even just in passing." She looked up at him beseechingly.

Her teacher stared back at her for a moment, nonplussed.

"Ana, my dear," he eventually replied, his voice gentle but incredulous, "surely you know that the Order of Maesters is a brotherhood, child? There _are_ no female Maesters. I thought I'd told you that before."

Ana froze. "I beg your pardon, Maester Luwin... but what do you mean, 'no female Maesters?' I thought that..." The girl's already pale complexion was turning a deathly white as the blood drained from her cheeks, and she swayed a little in her seat before bracing a hand against the table in front of her to keep herself upright.

Dread and mortification coursed through Luwin. _Oh no,_ he thought to himself, horrified, _I haven't told her, have I? She didn't know._ _And it's worse than that_ — _she thought that her lessons were preparation._ _She thought that she was to become a Maester herself!_

Aloud, all he could think to do was murmur, "I'm so sorry, Ana dearest. I feel like such a fool. I just assumed you were aware, that you would have read of it."

The girl shook her head jerkily. She sat staring at her lap for some time, silent.

"I thought it was like the Faith of the Seven," she eventually responded, her voice small and faint from shock. "They have septons _and_ septas. Men and women each have their place, even if there are disparities in their roles. I thought that I might have a watered-down version of your duties. But..." She shook her head, bringing her eyes up to meet her mentor's saddened gaze. "That is not the way of the Order, is it?"

"No, my child," Maester Luwin told her, heartbroken by the forlornness in her eyes. "In fact, I'm sorry to tell you, but I fear I must now: women and children are not permitted to enter the Citadel, Ana. It is forbidden."

Ana slumped back in her chair, pressing a hand to the spot above her heart, devastation written all over her face. "I see," she uttered dazedly. "I just figured that because I am only the second-born daughter... and it would have given Arya better prospects..." She closed her eyes against the sting of hot tears that was growing ever more persistent in her tear ducts. "I knew that it was not _common_ for a woman to be a Maester," she admitted, "...but for some reason, I never _fathomed_ that... that there were none altogether. But what... _why_... if I can't..."

Ana trailed off, and then suddenly staggered up from her seat, eyes snapping open once more. "Would you excuse me, Maester Luwin? I don't feel at all well."

"Of course, my dear, but Ana—" the Maester started, rising from his own chair and reaching out to his pupil in concern; but she waved him off vaguely with a watery smile and turned on her heel, fleeing the library before he could say anything more.

Ana risked the use of the exterior staircase for the sake of the expediency of her escape, not caring a whit about the possibility of falling. It hardly seemed to matter to her anymore. As she scurried down the steps, she began to castigate herself viciously, tears finally spilling over her lids and onto her cheeks, which were flushed scarlet from sheer humiliation.

What a fool she had been! She'd allowed herself to imagine a future that was entirely impossible to attain, and she'd harboured the fantasy for years without ever once checking if it could become a reality. She'd done what Arya was still doing: she'd clung to the fanciful notion of being able to occupy a man's position in a world that would never allow her the privilege. And all the while, she'd tricked herself into thinking herself exempt of the ways of their society thanks to her intelligence, into thinking that she would be more fortunate than her little sister. She'd even hoped that by choosing to become a Maester and thus becoming unable to marry, she'd be providing her sister with a better chance of marrying a lord powerful or wealthy enough to allow Arya some freedom of movement and activity: a chance for Arya to continue with her unusual, unladylike hobbies.

What a fool—what an _idiot_ —she had been.

Ana shook her head violently, trying to drag her thoughts out of the whirlpool of despair into which they'd descended. In the process of doing so, she noticed that without even realizing it, she'd somehow managed to stumble her way through the kennels and into the godswood. The heart tree of Winterfell was right up ahead, and Ana moved towards it in a trance, the eyes of its ancient face seeming to call to her.

When Ana reached the weirwood tree, she fell to her knees at its base and, drawn in by instinct, she shuffled even closer, nestling herself in a spot between two of its massive roots. She curled up in their embrace in the way that a babe huddles at its mother's breast, and she began to gently run her fingers over the roots' white bark as her tears morphed into great, gulping sobs.

"I have been so silly, so arrogant," she choked out, addressing the Old gods. Ana did not keep the Seven like her mother, but instead followed her father's Northern beliefs. She had always felt the presence of something greater than herself residing in the heart tree, but felt nothing in the sept her father had had built for her mother.

Her gods were the Old ones, and they were with her now, witnessing her shame.

"How could I have fooled myself for so long, deluded myself in such a way?" she asked of them, her voice weak and wretched with disappointment. "I am not special; I am no better than anyone else. I will be subject to the same life as any second-born daughter of a noble house. I will be a broodmare of fine stock, a vessel for heirs, a mother to children, and little more. That is my fate; and all that I have learned...will go towards taking care of them.

"It is not so very bad," she told the gods as bravely as she could, even as her heart sank and her cries became anguished. "I know that it is not so very bad. My fate is a better one than most can hope for, after all." She spoke the words but did not believe them, and so she sent silent prayers to the Old gods, knowing they could hear her and pleading that they forgive her dishonesty, her vanity, and her selfishness.

And the Old gods of the forest must have felt merciful in that moment, for just then, a branch snapped under a foot that was not her own and Ana knew that she was no longer alone in the godswood. Having given himself away, her most cherished little brother stepped out from behind a nearby tree trunk, concern creasing the planes of his young face. It broke Ana's heart to see him worried for her, and she immediately tried to make light of the situation.

"Bran, darling," she hiccoughed, trying desperately to hide the fact that she was crying, "What are you doing here? You should be in the training yard practicing, little monkey."

Bran disregarded his sister's attempt at admonishment and headed straight for her. Knowing that he wasn't fooled by her pathetic facade, Ana automatically opened her arms to him and he rushed to her embrace, diving straight for her lap and snuggling into his sister's warmth. Feeling Bran's beating heart so close to her own gave Ana a deep, instant sort of comfort, and her suffering eased a little.

"I knew that you needed me," he told her simply, taking one of her hands in his and fiddling with her fingers, "so I came to find you."

She curled those fingers over his and pulled her little brother in close. "Thank you, darling boy," she whispered as she pressed a kiss to his hair. "You were right."

She felt rather than saw his nod.

"What is it?" Bran eventually asked, his voice sad for her. "What's wrong?"

Ana paused, and then let out a miserable, trilling laugh. "You know how Old Nan once warned us that life isn't always fair?" she replied. She felt another nod against her chest. "Well," Ana continued, "I don't think I really understood her when she told us so, darling—but I do now." She began to sob again. "I do now."

And hence, that day, a piece of Ana was lost as she cried her heart out at the base of the weirwood tree with her little brother wrapped in her arms, doing his best to console her.

* * *

II.

Not even a month after she'd learnt the truth about her own predicament, Ana was confronted a little too abruptly with another harsh reality, and the experience utterly razed away what little had remained of her naivete.

The incident occurred on a deceptively lovely day; the sun had been shining gaily down on Winterfell and everyone was out in the open air, determined to soak up what they could of the golden glow.

Ana had perched herself on the balcony above the archery training yard, watching as Robb and Theon took turns shooting at targets while Bran had a sparring lesson with Jon. Theon seemed to be winning the archery contest, which wasn't much of a surprise to Ana. As much as she disliked Theon, she could easily admit that he was talented with a bow and arrow. Judging by the grins on their faces, he and Robb were busy ribbing each other, so Ana let her eyes slide away from them and over to the other pair of boys in the yard.

Jon was putting Bran through his paces, much to the younger boy's delight. Bran hated when his older brothers took it too easy on him, and thus was smiling widely even as Jon swung circles around him with his wooden sparring sword. Bran was doing well, parrying most of Jon's blows with either his sword or his shield, but, being a lad of only seven, he still had a lot to learn. So, naturally, Bran eventually forgot to keep his shield up, and seeing the opportunity to teach his little half-brother a valuable lesson, Jon struck Bran with just enough force to knock the boy down to the ground.

Of course, Catelyn Stark didn't see it that way. Ana had been keeping an eye on her lady mother from across the yard, watching as the clench of the her jaw grew tighter and tighter as the boys play-fought, teeth undoubtedly ground together behind the grim line of her mouth. There was something ugly in Ana's mother's eyes as she watched the sparring between her second-youngest and her husband's bastard, a darkness that made Ana wary. So when Jon struck Bran with his dull, wooden blade and Lady Stark swooped down into the yard towards them, a thought suddenly dawned upon Ana: had her mother been waiting for this to happen...just so that she could berate Jon?

 _No,_ Ana thought, almost begging herself to be mistaken, _I must be imagining things. Of course_ _, Mother is not very kind to Jon, but usually the extent of it is just glaring, or flat-out ignoring him. She wouldn't_ —

"How dare you!" Lady Stark hissed loudly, interrupting Ana's train of thought. "He is a little boy; you are being far too hard on him!" Her mother had crouched down to Bran's height and was clutching the little boy against her, having yanked his hand out of Jon's, which had been only been extended in the first place to help Bran up off the ground.

Ana's eyes widened and she felt her hackles rise. Robb had taken a turn with Bran earlier that afternoon and he had been just as rough with his brother—if not more so—than Jon had been! What did Mother expect? They were sparring! And Bran hadn't even looked upset when he fell, just a little embarrassed. In fact, from what Ana could see of her little brother's face, he looked much more upset at the fuss their mother was causing than he had been at being knocked down.

Ana hopped to her feet and, keeping her eyes on the three below, slowly made her way down into the yard.

Bran squirmed free of his mother's grasp, his cheeks pink. "I'm all right, Mother," he told her quietly, clearly mortified by the growing number of spectators in the yard looking over at them curiously.

Lady Catelyn took Bran's face in both of her hands and peered at him closely, not trusting his words. There was a small welt on his cheek, but other than that, he was unharmed. Still, the sight of the blemish seemed to enrage Lady Stark; her eyes glazed over, turning the colour of a frozen river as she lifted her gaze from her son to Jon Snow.

"Go see Maester Luwin, Bran," she ordered, her voice cold.

"Mother—"

"Now, Bran!" barked Lady Catelyn. Bran looked up at her with the expression of a wounded pup, but his mother was too focused on Jon to see it. Sufficiently cowed, Bran sent a pleading glance at the approaching Ana before ducking his head and scurrying away from the scene as his mother had bade him.

Once Bran had left the yard, Lady Stark advanced on Jon, snatching the wrist of his sword hand and squeezing it mercilessly. As Ana watched on, now hurrying towards the pair, Jon winced, fear, shame, and hurt flitting over his features before his posture deflated.

He seemed utterly resigned to bear the brunt of Lady Stark's frustration, and seeing her older brother—her protector—so broken... it made Ana falter in her steps even as she wanted to come to his aid.

Her mother's next words snapped her out of it, though.

"How dare you," Lady Stark repeated, her face a vicious scowl. "How dare you lay a hand on him, bastard?! If I _ever_ see you strike Bran again, I will see you sent straight to the Wall, I swear it by the Old gods and the new. I don't care how old you are; I'll get Benjen to take you, and you can freeze to death in the cold for all I care..."

The vitriolic tirade went on, and Ana watched in horror as her mother's grip tightened ever further around Jon's wrist, her knuckles a skeletal white. Ana looked over desperately at Robb and Theon, but neither of them showed signs of intending to intervene; Robb just stood there looking distinctly uncomfortable beside Theon, who had the oddest, smug, little look on his face, as though he were enjoying himself at Jon's expense. Not for the first time, Ana wanted to punch him; but she had bigger problems to deal with.

Since no one else was going to step up, Ana took it upon herself to do so. She went straight to her lady mother's side and tugged on the fabric of her dress insistently, trying to get her attention.

"Mother! _Mother!_ " the middle Stark daughter urged. "Please let him go, Mother, _please_! You're making a scene."

Lady Stark ignored Ana, choosing instead to continue her lambasting of Jon and all the while cutting off the circulation of blood to the bastard boy's hand.

And as she stood there, pulling at her mother's dress like a child of Rickon's age and pleading with the lady to no avail, something in Ana broke.

Thus, without thinking, Ana stepped forward and sharply smacked her mother's hand away from Jon's wrist in full view of everyone present, family and smallfolk alike.

Lady Catelyn stared at her daughter in shock and outrage, cradling her stinging hand against her chest as the normally subdued Ana glowered up at her.

"That's enough, Mother!" she snapped. "He's done nothing wrong!" Righteous anger surged through the Stark girl's system, banishing any hints of her initial trepidation. "He's never done _anything_ wrong, and yet you insist on being cruel to him just because he's not _yours_ by blood."

Ana was unknowingly baring her teeth, so intense was her rage. "The true question isn't 'how dare Jon,' mother; it's _'how dare **you**?'_!"

The yard and all of its occupants fell completely silent. A raven cawed overhead.

"Ana—" Jon started, stunned, but the girl held up a hand to silence him.

"Don't, brother," she snarled, putting special emphasis on the familial term as she glared daggers at her mother, too incensed by the injustice of it all to even consider backing down—even though she knew that she'd just landed herself in a massive heap of trouble.

Well, Ana thought to herself, if the least she could do for Jon was give her mother a different target, then she'd gladly sacrifice herself to the role, and she would do so in spectacular fashion. All of Ana's pent-up angst from the past month had come out to play, and she was going to use it to destroy any illusions of the timid, little bookworm that everyone had conjured of her, and that she had wholly outgrown.

Enough was enough. For her and for Jon.

It appeared that Ana's mother was not in the least impressed with her display, for Catelyn Stark's beautiful features had become positively glacial. Aside from the flash of humiliation that sparked in the lady's eyes as her gaze swept fleetingly over the yard and took into account all of the faces staring at her and her daughter, the only visible emotion on her face was stern disapproval.

"You, young lady, are coming with me," ordered Lady Stark, her voice not raised, but loud enough in that still-ringing silence to carry her words to the ears of all those watching. "We are going to see your father— _right_ now."

Without waiting for a response, Ana's mother turned on her heel, skirts swirling, and swept out of the yard; and knowing that it was pointless to disobey, her daughter followed behind her, her cheeks pale but head held high and her eyes all flint and blue-green fire. The two women left a stupefied crowd behind them.

* * *

The trip to Lord Stark's solar was made in stony silence. Anyone who happened to pass by Lady Stark and her daughter on their journey through the castle gave the two a wide berth, wary of the icy tension that seemed to permeate the air around them.

When Ana and her mother finally arrived at their destination and entered the solar, Lord Stark was seated at his desk across from Maester Luwin, the two laughing at some private joke. The mirth on Ana's father's face immediately slid away, however, the second he caught a glimpse of his wife's murderous expression. He exchanged a glance with Luwin, who, at Lord Eddard's abrupt change in disposition had looked over his shoulder only to be greeted with the sight of the two fuming ladies behind him. Nodding curtly to the lord of the castle, Maester Luwin had promptly stood, gathered his things, and left the room, shooting a worried glance at Ana as he passed her on his way out. The door shut quietly behind him and as soon as it was closed, Ana's mother began to speak.

The ensuing minutes went by in a haze for Ned Stark as he attempted to follow Catelyn's incensed ranting about their daughter's outrageous conduct in the training yard. It had greatly disturbed Ned to see Catelyn so openly furious and Ana so obstinate when they first arrived; now, hearing that Jon Snow was the subject of the conflict, all became clear—and also infinitely more complicated for Ned.

As his wife continued her tirade, their daughter simply stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on a spot above her father's head as she remained silent, appearing to let her mother's words wash over her. The only sign Ana gave that she was affected was clearly unintentional; her hands, clasped below her waist, were shaking.

Eventually Catelyn had said her fill and, after catching her breath, she'd stalked from the room, calling behind her that she could not bear to look at Ana for another minute and that Ned could deal with her as he saw fit. Her daughter's spine stiffened at that, but Ana kept her shoulders back and refused to cower under her father's measuring gaze even as he rose from his seat, towering over her.

A minute went by without either father or daughter speaking a word; but before long, Ned could no longer stand the silence.

"Well... do you have anything to say for yourself, Ana?" he, her lord father, had demanded. The young, petite girl had stood before him, her chin held high in spite of her trembling frame, and the words that flowed from her mouth next confounded him.

"Father," Ana had replied, her jaw set even as she shook, "in the future... I will be sure to address Mother with the respect due to her station, especially in public. This incident will not repeat itself." The girl paused, seeming to steel herself. "But anything beyond that _?_ " she went on, her young, clear voice shaking with an anger much too mature for someone of her age, "That is in _her_ hands. And you can say what you like about it, Father, you can berate me if you wish; but I will not budge."

Ana Stark sucked in a harsh breath, and then concluded her speech by declaring, "I will treat Mother with the same kindness that she affords Jon. It seems that no one else will hold her accountable for her _wretched_ treatment of him, and so that duty now falls upon me." Ned's daughter's mouth, a mouth framed by his late sister's lips, twisted into a bitter sneer. "It is about time that Mother had a taste of her own medicine," it spoke.

Ned had been completely flabbergasted by the change in Ana's character that those harsh, decisive words unveiled. His little girl had grown up somewhere over the course of all of those lessons she'd taken with Luwin, and Ned had missed the signs of it. He'd suddenly felt horribly guilty; for it seemed that he and Cat had neglected Ana, forgotten their little girl somewhere in the library bookshelves and the rows of the glass garden, leaving her there to find her own way, to fend for herself. And as a result of that neglect, her estimation of her parents had radically shifted, and it seemed she saw them less as her mother and father now than she did as just plain _people._

And that? That was a problem. Because despite his personal feelings on the whole, sordid ordeal, Ned was still the Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North, and he had a duty to discipline his children when they challenged his authority. Ana seeing him and Catelyn more complexly than the other children did meant that she would become more prone to doing just that—challenging his authority—because she would expect and even anticipate his mistakes, his imperfections. And if she began to do so, the others would follow in her footsteps.

And to make matters worse, it seemed that she had already lost a fair amount of respect for him and Catelyn. Therefore, he had to make an example of her. He had to remind her of her place.

As such, having no choice but to punish his daughter for her radical impertinence (even if he was secretly loath to do so), Ned knew immediately what the consequences of her actions had to be. And so, he proclaimed: Ana's lessons with Maester Luwin were to be suspended for three months. During that time, she was to be forbidden from frequenting either the glass garden or the library; she was to attend Sansa's classes with Septa Mordane every day of said period; and she was to dress herself properly as a young lady, rather than in the dull gray healing garb that had become her everyday wear.

Ana's eyes hardened as her father dictated the punishment to her and scolded her thoroughly for her blatant, public disrespect of her lady mother. When he had finished his censure, Ana channeled that same Lady Stark as best she could and coldly replied, "Understood, Father," before bestowing him with a jerky curtsey and leaving the solar, the door nearly clipping her heels as it slammed shut behind her.

And from that day on, Lord and Lady Stark watched their daughter become a stranger.

* * *

 **So! There's the first chapter, and your introduction to Ana Stark! The next installment will jump ahead chronologically three years, i.e. to the beginning of the GOT timeline.**

 **Thanks for reading! If you liked this and can spare a moment, please leave a review or send me a PM telling me your thoughts about what I've written so far :)**

 **Until next time, take care!**


	2. Epochs, Ending and Beginning

**A/N: Hello again, all! You may have thought I abandoned this, but AHA! I have returned months and months later to take up TWoW once more.**

 **I was delighted by the response to the previous chapter; thank you to all those who have followed, favourited, and reviewed it. I realize it's been quite a long while, so I encourage you to re-read the first chapter if you're** — **understandably** — **a bit fuzzy on the details of Ana's childhood.**

 **I took some time away from posting this story for many reasons, but one of them was to figure out exactly how I want the plot to develop. I've figured that out now, and I finally have a solid outline, so I'm going forward full steam ahead.**

 **My goal is to update every two weeks from hereon out, so we'll see how that goes. The chapters will vary in length, anywhere from 5,000 to 10,000 words apiece.**

 **All right! Now that that's said, here is the next installment. It's heavy in exposition, but all the same, I hope that you enjoy it :)**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** I own neither Game of Thrones nor the ASOIAF series. They belong to HBO, D. B. Weiss, David Benioff, and to George R. R. Martin. This story is written purely for enjoyment and I make no profit from writing it, nor from posting it on this site. Some of the dialogue from _Game of Thrones_ will be used over the course of this story and modified to fit the story's plot. I do not own said dialogue. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Epochs, Ending and Beginning**

* * *

After the incident between herself, her mother, and Jon, Ana seemed to withdraw from the world. She largely avoided contact with other people where she could and, when forced to endure company, acted in an even more reticent manner than she had in the past.

Ana bore her three-month probation without complaint, performing all her duties obediently and satisfactorily; but her newfound complacency came at a cost. The young lady's eyes—once positively overflowing with curiosity and zest for learning—were now shuttered and unreadable. It was as though all the joy had been stripped from her, leaving an empty husk of a girl behind.

During her lessons with Mordane, Ana did as the septa instructed and seldom protested anything asked of her, but her heart was not in any of the tasks that she undertook. Ana's sewing was efficient and practical, but there was no imagination to her embroidery, no personal flare. She played musical instruments with some technical skill but no emotion, recited poetry in the same way, and continued to politely decline to sing, an attitude to which Septa Mordane had long been resigned. She observed all the niceties required of someone of her station, but she carried them out with a thinly veiled disinterest that often bordered as close to disdain as it could without warranting a reprimand from the septa.

The only time Ana was allowed to see Maester Luwin was when he came to teach the standard fare for young noble ladies to her, Sansa, and Arya: namely, history, sums, and household bookkeeping.

Sadly, none of this was of use to Ana. For one thing, the girl could do sums in her sleep. For another, her natural efficiency and analytical mind had resulted in a quick mastery of bookkeeping that rendered the mandated exercises tedious and repetitive. And finally, the lectures of history that Maester Luwin was required to impart upon Sansa and Arya were ones she had learnt long ago.

Above all, though, it was painful to see Maester Luwin and be unable to speak to him as she normally would. He had been ordered by her father to keep Ana at an arm's length for the duration of her punishment, and though she could see the regret in his eyes as he did so...well, he did so all the same.

Thus, the lessons stifled Ana rather than offering the girl any sort of reprieve.

To make matters worse, she and Sansa had quickly fallen out after the incident in the yard. Sansa had, as always, taken her mother's side in the affair. She had utterly rejected Ana's version of events, going so far as to rebuke her twin for her actions and to declare her and Jon the guilty parties in the conflict.

Sansa's dismissal might as well have been a knife to Ana's back for the amount of pain it inflicted, and since their ensuing clash, the twins had treated each other with nothing more than icy civility. However, in spite of Sansa's betrayal, Ana came to dearly miss her sister's companionship—not that she would ever admit such a thing aloud—and she suffered for the lack of it.

Jon had been the first to take notice of the rift between the twins, but when he had asked Ana about it, she refused to tell him what had happened, gently but firmly warning him to "leave it well enough alone, brother." She was determined to shield Jon from her mother's censure wherever possible, even when that censure had happened to spring from her twin's lips rather than directly from Lady Stark's.

No attempt at reconciliation with Ana was made by said lady. In Catelyn's eyes, it was her middle daughter who needed to make the first step towards forgiveness, and while Ana had been unfailingly polite to her mother since the incident in the training yard, the girl had never acknowledged her wrongdoing. In fact, around her lady mother—and, admittedly, around most other people as well—Ana used her courtesies to create a cool mask that was as unyielding as her conviction in the rightness of her defence of Jon.

Thus, mother and daughter were equally immovable.

Lord Eddard, on the other hand, had made a few clumsy attempts to make peace with his daughter. His offers were tentative: an inquiry as to her well-being; a few soft words of praise; a sweet, if ill-considered, gift.

A small part of Ana—the part that remained a neglected child, desperate for her parents' love and approval—was delighted by these efforts, and adored her father all the more for them.

The much larger part, however, found his attempts pitiful at best and an insult at worst.

 _Why does he even bother?_ she once thought to herself bitterly. _It's clear that he doesn't know the first thing about me, and it's far too late for us to forge a close bond. His efforts are futile. Worse: they're hollow. Father hasn't_ once _tried to understand the person I've become; instead, he shields himself from his failure and sees a little girl in my place...the last version of me he ever truly knew._

 _Well, here is the truth of it, the truth he fears: his neglect is irreversible. Maester Luwin has been my father in all but blood since I was five years old_ — _since the day_ _Lord and Lady Stark began to forget everything about their daughter but the fact of her existence. I think they sometimes forgot even that._

 _And in any case,_ Ana continued, her bitterness rising _, Jon's plight is Father's_ _fault more than anyone else's. I simply_ cannot _forgive him for that, no matter how much I'd like to. He may have taken Jon in and brought him back to Winterfell, but denying Jon and Lady Stark_ _the truth about Jon's mother has robbed them of any opportunity for closure, for healing. I cannot understand why he refuses to explain it all. His silence only widens the rift between them._

Therefore, in the spirit of her thoughts, Ana countered Ned Stark's efforts in the way she responded to most things those days: with flawless, impersonal courtesy. Her replies to his inquiries were polite but perfunctory, her reaction to his praise was indifferent thanks, and her acceptance of his gifts was gracious and joyless all at once.

With each of her subtle snubs, Ana witnessed her father's uncertainty rise and saw how her actions caused him heartache; in turn, she hated herself for causing him pain and for her inability to forgive him, and then resented him even more for inspiring her guilt.

To sum it all up, in one fell swoop—the swoop of Ana's blow to Catelyn's grip around Jon's wrist—the middle Stark daughter had, in a way, lost her father, her mother, and her twin.

* * *

Time was not kind to Ana.

The loss of a cherished, presupposed future and the pain of disillusionment and betrayal festered in the girl's heart like infection in a battle wound. As a consequence, Ana's innate solemnity began to rule her countenance and she achieved an unprecedented level of stoicism.

As she grew older, the Stark daughter waned to the point of becoming gaunt. The girl had been thin enough to start with when she was eating properly, but her appetite had withered away with her naivete. Her cheeks lost the roundness of youth by the time she reached age eleven; two years later, high cheekbones slashed harshly down the sides of her face, her skin drawn tautly over them. Ana's eyes, a strange, misty teal in colour, seemed all the wider for the pinched quality of her face, giving them a distinct eeriness. Between that, the haunted look in those same eyes, and the sheer paleness of Ana's skin against her near-raven locks, the Stark girl seemed more like a ghost with each passing day.

It should come as no surprise, then, that Ana's discreet smiles became quite the rare commodity as the years passed and summer waned. However, one of the few people who could draw such a thing from her—which was something of a surprise, given their previous lack of interaction—was the stable hand, Hodor.

* * *

In the first decade of her life at Winterfell, Ana had surprisingly few chances to get to know the simple-minded man whom everyone referred to as "Hodor," and so she'd not taken much notice of him except to regard the stable hand as a comfortingly permanent fixture of her home.

That changed, however, shortly after Ana's three-month punishment ended and she was permitted something close to her previous degree of autonomy.

The eve before she was granted her freedom, the middle Stark daughter had a decision to make: namely, where to go first upon the morn. Of the three most appealing options, Ana had reflected, the library was the one where she was least likely to be disturbed. Its only regular visitors were herself and Maester Luwin, but the Maester was going to be preoccupied with other duties in the following weeks. He needed to assist in the preparations for Lord Stark's upcoming journey to the Last Hearth, Lord Umber's stronghold, and while her father was away, he would have to take up Lord Stark's other duties in his stead. That meant not only that the library would be empty for awhile, but that in a few days' time, Ana would be needed in the infirmary to take over the Maester's tasks. Therefore, she had to make use of the library while she had the opportunity—as well she intended to.

As such, the day that Lord Stark brought Ana into his solar and declared that her time had been served, she had made straight for the Library Tower, selecting the first book she saw among the shelves. It just so happened to a collection of Northern legends, tales that told of the likes of Brandon the Builder and the Kings of Winter, ancestors of House Stark. Ana had brought the tome over to her table and placed it there with almost reverent care; this one was a favourite of hers because it was one she'd often read aloud for Bran. Her little brother had long been fascinated with their family history and with the Age of Heroes. He was quite taken with the idea of being a great knight one day, a knight like the ones of that era. One of his fondest wishes was to train under Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Ana settled in with the book and before long had immersed herself in its captivating histories, but some time later as she was turning a page, her ears had perked up at the sound of an unintelligible, pained shout. Instantly, she was on her feet, abandoning the tome in favour of determining the source of the noise.

As she'd peered out the tower window, Ana's sharp gaze found Hodor across the yard by the stables, seemingly cornered by two servant boys. She recognized the pair of them from the gaggle of smallfolk whom Theon sometimes took to entertaining with his grandiose tales—including the one concerning her own potentially... _mystical_...nature.

Oh yes; Theon had taken his "witch of Winterfell" jibes to a new level, and as a result, quite a few of the smallfolk were convinced that Ana was some kind of sorceress. Some of the stories he'd told them about her rivaled Old Nan's in their outlandishness.

He claimed that Ana spent her time in the infirmary brewing all sorts of magical potions, and that while some of them were indeed meant to heal, others could do any number of terrible things to their drinker. When she'd heard tell of that yarn, Ana had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. _Well, it's_ _not too far off, really,_ she'd mused to herself, remembering the stunt she'd pulled to get back at Jeyne Poole.

However, an even taller tale had made its way back to her, and it was one she'd found far less amusing. It seemed that Theon had told the smallfolk that Ana communed with the spirits of the dead, and that her seances with them were slowly turning her into ghost. This, he'd explained, was the cause of her pallor, her strange eyes, her near-skeletal form, and her somber demeanour. She was a wraith, he said, existing in a state somewhere between life and death.

Although Ana wasn't particularly vain, young ladies as a rule don't tend to enjoy having their looks compared to the likes of an apparition (or, worse still, a corpse), and Ana was no exception. She didn't waste time by sulking about what she'd overheard, though. Instead, she had gotten her revenge on Theon through Jon. Her brother had been all too eager to trounce Winterfell's ward upon hearing what he'd said about his little sister and, much to Ana's delight, he chose to do so during their sparring practice in front of Lord Eddard. That had left Theon suitably humiliated. It had not, however, stopped the spread of stories of Ana, and she often had to steel herself against the whispers of the likes of the two boys who—ridiculous as it might sound—were menacing Hodor.

Ana's eyebrows rose in disgusted disbelief as she watched the scene play out; by the Children, the miscreants were pelting the poor man with stones! They even seemed to be aiming for Hodor's face on purpose, as though it were the goal of the sick little game they were playing.

Even from where she watched, Ana could see the huge man's cheeks were red and swelling and his eyes were wet with tears.

A swift surge of rage rushed through her and before she knew it, she was on her feet, flying down the steps of the Library Tower and out into the yard.

Ana, with her soft tread and waifish form, made so little noise as she swept towards the two bullies from behind that they did not hear her approach, enthralled as they were in their abuse of the gigantic but defenseless Hodor. Even consumed as she was with her ire, Ana felt a small spark of amusement—malicious though it was—as a plan formulated itself in her mind.

 _Yes_ , thought Ana. _If Theon has made me the witch of Winterfell, then fine—the witch of Winterfell, I'll be._

With careful, near-silent footfalls, Ana positioned herself just a few feet from the backs of the two bullies and took a deep, quiet breath to steady her resolve. Then, she took a deliberately heavy step forward.

"And what," she asked coldly, "is the meaning of this?"

The two boys nearly jumped out of their skins in fright, snapping around to face her. The shorter of the two twisted so sharply that his ankle gave way and he fell to the ground with a pained groan. His cohort scrambled to help him, hauling the smaller boy up by the meat of his upper arm, eliciting a sharp wince from his clumsy companion.

"M-milady," said the large one, terrified by the glowering Ana, "w-we w-w-ere just—"

"Just what?" the Stark sister demanded, her anger exacerbated by his stammering. "Just tormenting poor Hodor, here?"

They all glanced back at Hodor, who was watching Ana with trepidation, no doubt uncertain of the nature of her intentions.

"It's not very kind of you to do that, you know," Ana went on, her light tone of voice clearly belied by her unchanged, thunderous expression. "Not very smart of you, either. If Hodor weren't as good-natured as he is, I imagine he could do you both a great deal of harm." The boys paled at the realization, and the spokesman of the two was unable to conceal his gulp. "Now, of course, given that he _is_ so good-natured, I rather suppose he won't.

"I, on the other hand..." Ana smiled, and there was a gleeful viciousness in the way her lips pulled back from her teeth, "Well. You've heard Theon Greyjoy's stories. I might just be tempted to slip a little _something_ into your cups come the next feast—that is, should I ever see you disturbing Hodor again. Are we clear?"

Her tone brooked absolutely no argument, a fact of which the two boys seemed to be quite aware. Too terrified to open their mouths and risk Ana's displeasure, the pair of them settled for vigorous nods of the head.

Ana could have rolled her eyes, but she refrained from doing so in favour of uttering a curt "Good." The young bullies shrank, their shoulders curling inwards, cowering away from the sheer amount of livid disdain the word contained.

"Now get out of my sight."

The two miscreants scarpered immediately, eager to leave before the young Stark lady changed her mind and decided on a harsher punishment for them.

Ana was impassive as she watched them run, standing eerily still. Once they were out of eyesight and earshot, the glacial mask over her features melted, and when she turned to Hodor, there was a slight, gentle smile on her lips and tenderness in her eyes.

"They shouldn't bother you again," she told him solemnly, "but if they do, please come and let me know, Hodor. I'll show them what's what."

Hodor stared at Ana for a moment, awe and bewilderment written plainly on his face. "Hodor?" he asked, and from the tone, Ana felt reasonably sure that she knew what he was asking: _Why?_

"Well, for one thing, I don't like bullies," she replied, "but for another... You're family, Hodor. And you've always been so wonderful with Bran. What kind of person would I be if I let those idiots be cruel to someone who's only shown kindness to my loved ones?" She shuddered, as though the very thought of being such a person repulsed her.

Hodor reddened and looked down at the praise, mumbling, "Hodor," once more, this time rather abashedly.

Ana truly smiled then, her cheeks aching from disuse as she did so. The man was adorable... albeit in a large, bumbling sort of way.

"I was going to head to the infirmary to see if anything needs restocking," she told Hodor, who looked confused by the seeming non-sequitur, "and I wonder; would you like to come with me? Those welts could use some salve."

Hodor's countenance brightened at the idea, but then he slumped. "Hodor," he sighed, glancing back at the stables.

Ana caught on. "No, no, I'll vouch for you if anyone asks, you won't be in trouble. Come on, now—let me help you."

Hodor still looked torn, and Ana was just about to amend her offer so that he wouldn't have to leave his post when the humongous, child-like man shuffled forward, grinning sheepishly.

"That's the spirit," Ana encouraged with a coaxing kind of softness. "Let's get you patched up, Hodor." She reached out a small, slim-fingered hand to him and Hodor took it in his, wrapping his fingers around hers as carefully as if they were made of glass.

Then, Ana turned on her heel and set out in the direction of the infirmary with a gentle tug on Hodor's hand; and in that moment, a new friendship took root.

* * *

That friendship as well as her bonds with Rickon, Bran, Arya, Jon, and Maester Luwin were the foremost things that kept Ana sane as the years passed. Their presence helped to lift the Stark girl out of her depression for brief moments of time, to grant her reprieves from her pain, and to remind her of what was important. Unfortunately, though, it often proved difficult to find time to spend with them, much to Ana's displeasure.

Rickon, for example, proved particularly elusive. His older sister reflected with no small degree of bitterness that it was almost as though Catelyn kept the little pup on a leash. After all, Ana thought dryly, should she not, Lady Stark ran the risk that he would wander off into the arms of her least-favourite daughter, who might well corrupt him with her wicked ways of... _empathy_. The silver lining was that even if Catelyn had said anything scathing about Ana to Rickon, none of it had stuck with the boy. He was still young enough to be blessed with utter impartiality when it came to the infighting of his loved ones, and for that, Ana was thankful.

Bran's predicament was the same and yet different thanks to the couple of years he had in surplus to Rickon. He, like his little brother, did not pick sides in the conflict between Ana and their mother. Bran knew that something had come to pass the day of the incident and that Ana had gotten in trouble because of it, but he was not privy to the details, and Ana was fine with that. The last thing she wanted was to cause problems for her little brother.

Catelyn doted on Bran almost as much as Rickon, but because he was older (and incidentally, male), he spent much more time with the Maester and with his brothers than he did with his mother, who was often preoccupied with the household affairs of Winterfell. This granted him more opportunities to slip away and visit Ana, especially when the boys were taking lessons in the library that happened to coincide with Ana's free time. It also granted Ana the chance to sneak into the training yard from time to time, where she would watch and cheer Bran on as he sparred with the older boys. If her mother showed up, there was a place under the gallery where Ana could remain out of sight.

* * *

And it was from that spot, one fateful day, that Ana watched as Robb and Jon helped Bran with his archery technique.

 _Well_ , Ana amended the thought, the shadow of a smile in her eyes, _"help" might be a generous way of phrasing it._

'Twas true that at first, the older boys had done their best to assist their little brother, giving him pointers and gently adjusting his stance, coaching him in earnest. But as arrow after arrow missed its target, their mirth got the better of them. Advice dwindled and laughter reigned, its flow unstoppable. Ana watched Bran carefully for any sign of hurt at his brothers' teasing, but although she could tell he was irritated by his lack of improvement, he was laughing with the others nonetheless, taking their japes in stride.

His sister felt proud of him then. _My little monkey is growing a strong spine,_ she reflected. _His aim will come along too, in time._

The boys' mood sobered quickly, however, when Lord Eddard made an appearance, Lady Catelyn at his side. Though she was hidden beneath the gallery, Ana knew it was them from the way their feet fell on the wooden planks overhead; her mother's steps were light and fast and her father's, heavy and purposeful. They stopped a ways away from where Ana was lurking, and the Stark girl relaxed, grateful that she wouldn't have to remain completely silent to go unnoticed.

Ana watched in bitter amusement as the older boys straightened under their father's gaze, their playfulness disappearing. Bran, on the other hand, hadn't noticed his parents' presence quite yet. He had drawn his bow, his little arm straining to keep the string taut as he took aim.

He loosed the arrow...and it flew into a barrel far left of the target.

Bran let his bow arm lower, his gaze falling to his feet as he stomped once at the dirt, venting his frustration. Robb's stare contemplated the wayward arrow with a thoughtful expression and crossed arms, but Jon walked behind Bran to his other side, looking to bring the boy's attention back to the challenge at hand. He set his hands on his little brother's shoulders and leaned down to his eye level.

"Go on," Jon told him, his voice gentle but firm. "Father's watching."

Bran twisted his body to look up at Lord Stark, a hint of trepidation in his blue eyes as he stared up beyond where Ana could see, presumably at their father. Jon copied him.

"And your mother," added the older boy, his tone grave with the weight of the distinction.

Bran nodded at his parents, his mouth giving a slight, nervous quirk of a smile. Right as he went to turn back towards the target, his gaze slid off to one side and met his sister's warm eyes, making him pause in silent question. Ana put a finger to her lips and winked, a small, rare grin curving her lips. Her Bran, clever as ever, played along, giving no further indication that he'd seen her but the telltale twinkle in his eyes.

The boy then hurriedly moved to face the target and selected an arrow from the quiver, resuming his stance. His expression was one of total concentration as he nocked the arrow, drew his bow, and aimed, and Ana silently remarked to herself that if sheer determination were enough to guide the flight of an arrow, Bran's would pierce the bullseye every time.

But, of course, it wasn't.

The arrow soared over not just the target, but the wall behind it.

Bran huffed, albeit in good humour; Jon and Robb laughed boisterously, thoroughly entertained; and, from his perch on a worn saddle laid over a wooden beam, little Rickon burst into infectious giggles.

Ana herself couldn't help but chuckle quietly.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Their father's deep voice quelled the laughter, drawing his sons' attention back to the gallery. "Keep practicing, Bran," he encouraged. "Go on."

Bran gave Lord Stark an infinitesimal nod and began to prepare his next shot. Jon leaned down again, surveying his little brother's face intently as he nocked yet another arrow. "Don't think too much, Bran," he advised.

"Relax your bow arm," added Robb as he analyzed Bran's stance.

Ana watched as Bran's elbow lowered and his stance softened slightly, approaching the more natural poses of the older boys when they took to archery practice. Her little brother exhaled, a new peace in his eyes, and Ana was intrigued as he took a breath, preparing to loose—

 _THUD._

An arrow lodged itself deep into the bullseye.

Ana's shrewd gaze moved past Bran (who'd whipped around in startled surprise, his own arrow still nocked) and zeroed in on the triumphant archer: one focused Arya Stark.

When Ana's little sister registered that she'd hit the center of the target, she beamed, her gray eyes teeming with pride. Her smile took on a mischievous quality as she met Bran's glower, and the youngest Stark sister took a playful curtsy, one hand still gripping her bow. Within seconds, Bran was after her, and a chorus of laughter pealed through brisk Northern air. Ana observed her two younger siblings with fondness in her eyes, making note of Bran's speed and Arya's agility even as her older brothers egged the pair of them on.

Despite the careless joy of the moment, a pang of sorrow resonated in Ana's thoughts. To her, the innocent fun of her little brother and sister was bittersweet given that, although they both played at being warriors, only Bran would have the opportunity to realize that dream one day, and not Arya. Ana sometimes felt guilty for indulging her sister, knowing full well the improbability of her hopes. And yes, she had actively indulged Arya—even to the point of enlisting Jory Cassel to give her the odd lesson or two in secret.

Ana's attention was drawn away from the scene in the yard as a set of footsteps sounded somewhere overhead, her interest piqued as she realized that the visitor was headed towards Lord and Lady Stark. Staying close to the walls to remain out of sight, Ana crept towards her parents' location, turning the corner of the yard under the rafters and sidling over to the spot directly beneath where they stood.

"Lord Stark. My lady." Ana immediately recognized the speaker as Ser Rodrik Cassel, Jory's uncle and Winterfell's Master-at-Arms. "A guardsman just rode in from the hills. They've captured a deserter from the Night's Watch."

The ensuing pause sat heavily in the air.

"Get the lads to saddle their horses," Ana's father responded, the order low and grim. A pair of footsteps quickly receded, their owner leaving to carry it out.

"Do you _have_ to?"

It was Lady Catelyn who asked this, and for once, Ana was sympathetic to her mother's words. Neither of them was fond of executions.

Her father simply replied, "He swore an oath, Cat."

Obviously agreeing, Ser Rodrik added, "Law is law, my lady."

Her mother was silent.

"Tell Bran he's coming, too," Lord Eddard instructed Ser Rodrik, and Ana's heart gave a jolt. Her stomach sank in dismay at the notion of her sweet little brother witnessing a beheading.

"Ned," spoke Lady Catelyn, and by the tone of her voice, it seemed to Ana that yet again, she and her mother were seeing eye-to-eye. "Ten is too young to see such things."

"He won't be a boy forever," her father countered, and though she desperately wanted to disagree with him, Ana knew in her gut that he had the right of things. Then came the utterance of their ever-looming house words: "And winter is coming."

Lady Catelyn made no reply, and Ana heard her father depart the way Ser Rodrik had before him.

For a long moment, the middle Stark daughter stared dazedly into the training yard, unseeing and immobile. Before long, though, a sudden burst of giggles from Rickon startled her from her trance and, yearning for solitude, Ana hastened from the yard in the direction of the glass gardens.

As she walked, her mind raced. _A deserter from the Night's Watch._ Ana mulled the idea over in her thoughts, wondering what might have driven the man to leave his post. Had he committed a crime and tried to make a run for it? Had he broken his vows? Or was he just a coward, running from his duty? _Who knows,_ she reflected. _There may be more to it than that. Or, there may not. Perhaps I'll find out when the men return._

With that remark, Ana's mind turned to her little brother, and she found herself frowning. She knew it was necessary for Bran to learn the way things were, but he still seemed too young and too innocent to his older sister to be ready to witness an execution. She knew she was biased in favour of protecting him, but all the same, she was afraid that seeing such a violent act as a beheading would change Bran—would haunt him.

After all, much less jarring sort of death had changed _her_ irrevocably, although not in the way one might expect.

* * *

The event that had shaken Ana so badly came to pass not long after her twelfth nameday, when she received an unexpected visit to the infirmary one afternoon.

...

By that point in time, Ana had firmly established herself to those in proximity of Winterfell as a competent healer, regardless of her youth. As it so happened, Ana's falling out with her parents and her twin had steeled the girl in more ways than one. Thus, once her punishment had run its course, Ana launched herself into her duties in the infirmary and set about overcoming her aversion to the hard truths of the discipline: the truths of blood and bone and flesh and rot. She relished the opportunity for a distraction from her misery—however grim that distraction may have been.

Maester Luwin had been at turns surprised, impressed, and concerned by her newfound drive, and despite his wariness, he resumed his tutelage of the Stark girl in the practicum of herblore and healing. Ana's apprenticeship (for lack of a better word) was one of the few things that kept her going, and even if he'd thought it best, Luwin wouldn't have had the heart to take it away from the girl.

The Maester knew that Ana been suffering ever since she lost her sense of purpose—her dream of studying at the Citadel—and he felt in part responsible for that suffering. It had been his idea, after all, to set Ana on the path that she'd been walking since the age of five, this path of alternative learning, so different from the singularly genteel education of her twin.

It was he who had told Ana stories of his time in Oldtown at the Citadel. It was he who had glorified the place in her young, impressionable (however remarkable) mind. It was also he who had neglected to inform that young lady of a reality he'd believed to be so obvious, but to which, in retrospect, she would have had no exposure other than his own say-so.

Full of guilt at having devastated the child he'd come to love as a daughter, Luwin did the only thing he could to begin to make it up to the girl.

He threw caution to the wind...and taught Ana everything he knew about healing and herblore.

 _Everything._

And she'd soaked it all in like a woman dying of thirst.

As the months went by and Ana grew, people began to forget the girl's true age. Between the combination of her height (perhaps the most noticeable similarity between her and Sansa), her eerily mature speech, and her reserved demeanour, Ana was often mistaken for a woman grown, albeit a young one. This misconception worked in the girl's favour, lending her an authority that she'd lacked when she was still obviously a child.

And so, gradually, after she'd proved herself time and time again, it became common knowledge among the smallfolk that if you needed a healer and Maester Luwin was preoccupied, the lady Ana was your best bet...even if the bird was a touch strange.

...

The afternoon of the day when Ana's life-changing incidence had occurred, a young woman arrived at Winterfell in the back of a hay wagon, her grandfather lying unconscious at her side. Some men helped to carry the elderly farmer to the infirmary at Ana's request, and once he was settled inside on a bed, she sent a servant boy running to find Maester Luwin. In the meantime, Ana took stock of the farmer's symptoms while his granddaughter, Alys—the young woman who'd brought him to Winterfell—looked on anxiously at his bedside.

As she examined the frail, elderly man, Ana's heart filled with dread. She didn't need to wait for Luwin to confirm any suspicions; she'd seen this before, and she knew exactly what it meant.

"I am truly sorry, Alys," Ana told her quietly, sitting down to take the young woman's hands gently in her own and giving them a light squeeze. "You did everything right in the way you cared for him while he was being moved here, but even so, I fear you must prepare yourself for the worst. I don't want to give you any false hope and so, if you'd prefer it, I'll be frank with you."

Alys stared at the young Stark lady, her hands trembling as she peered into eyes that were far too old for the face they adorned. After a moment, she dropped her gaze and gave a curt nod. "I would, milady," she agreed, mustering some courage. "Please...tell it to me straight."

Ana also nodded, although hers was slow and soft. "Very well," she replied, her voice subdued. "Your grandfather will likely pass before nightfall, Alys, if not shortly after. His heart is failing. It's a testament to his strength that he made it here living, but I'm afraid...it's quite clear he has no chance of recovery. The most I can do for him now, with your permission, is to make sure he feels no discomfort as he goes."

Alys inhaled sharply through her teeth and Ana had to stop herself from wincing at the anguish that flooded the young woman's expression.

"Oh gods," the granddaughter breathed, her cheeks pale and her watery eyes glinting bleakly in the candlelight. "I—I think I knew it, but I just...I didn't want to believe..." Her gaze moved to the figure lying supine on the bed. "Oh, Grandfather. Daft old man, you're all I have!" Her voice cracked, tears spilling over onto her cheeks. "You shouldn't have pushed yourself so hard. _Gods_ , whatever am I going to do without you?" Finally, the young woman broke down, shuddering with sobs.

After a moment's hesitation, Ana pulled Alys into her long, slender arms, using a gentle hand on the back of her head to guide the young woman's chin to Ana's shoulder. Once the farmer's granddaughter let her weight sink into Ana, the lady wrapped her in a light embrace, rubbing slow circles into her back. For a good few minutes, she let Alys cry on her shoulder, cooing comforting words to her. Her mind drifted as she did so, and she wondered what was taking Maester Luwin so long.

Eventually, Ana knew that she had to get up to attend to Alys' grandfather, and so she gently pulled her arms away from Alys, but met her blue eyes reassuringly as she did so.

"I'm so very sorry, Alys," Ana murmured to the young woman. "I wish I could do more for him. But I want you to know that you're always welcome at Winterfell. There's plenty of work to go 'round if you're willing, and we take good care of our people. You don't have to be out there on your own if you don't want to be."

Alys' eyes widened as she stifled a hiccough. "D'you—d'you mean it, milady? Can I really stay here?"

"Of course, Alys," Ana replied with a small, bracing smile. "When you feel up to it, sometime in the next few days, I'll take you to see Lord and Lady Stark and they'll find a position for you. They're always glad to help."

Alys was stunned. "Thank you, milady," she stammered. "That's so kind. Oh! But look at your shoulder, I got it all wet with my blubbering! Forgive me, milady, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't you dare apologize," Ana cut her off, her tone warm but firm. "I don't care about my dress; you and your grandfather are my priority. Speaking of which...we need to talk about what you'd like me to do for your grandfather, Alys."

The young woman nodded solemnly but stayed mum, waiting for Ana to continue, and so the Stark girl did.

"There are three options for his care at present. The first is to do nothing and let him pass away as is." She let that sit for a moment. "The second is to administer milk of the poppy. It will dull any pain he might be experiencing even in unconsciousness, but it will not counteract it entirely. As such, the third and most extreme of the options," Ana revealed, "is to administer Essence of Nightshade. I would give your grandfather three drops of it, which is enough to lull him into a deep and dreamless sleep, free from any pain. But in his state, the Nightshade will almost certainly quicken his death. That is the price of the painlessness." She paused once more to let her patient's granddaughter gather her thoughts, and then, her voice soft, she asked, "What do you feel would be best, Alys?"

The farmer's granddaughter bit her lip as she considered her guardian's state. Her stare lingered on his chest, which was heaving awkwardly with his efforts to breathe.

"I think..." Alys began, uncertainty briefly flickering across her features before her resolve hardened, "I think it'd be best to end his suffering. So...the Nightshade, please, Lady Ana."

"That's what I would have chosen, too," Ana remarked, giving Alys' hands one last reassuring squeeze before she stood from her seat. The young healer left the farmer's bedside and walked over to the cabinet on the far wall of the infirmary. She reached up to the top shelve and rummaged around for a moment before pulling her hand back down to examine the vial she'd retrieved, giving a satisfied nod as she spied its contents. She promptly returned to her patient and his loved one, setting the vial on a stool set next to the bed. Delicately, she squeezed the bulb of the stopper, drawing a clear, reddish liquid into the pipette below.

"You're sure, Alys?" Ana queried, ready to act but waiting for a final confirmation.

"Aye, milady," Alys answered, her voice wobbling slightly but her expression wholly determined.

Without further ado, Ana perched herself carefully on the edge of her patient's bed and unstopped the little bottle, lifting the pipette out of the liquid therein and wiping off any clinging droplets inside the mouth of the vial. Once the pipette was dry enough, Ana brought her thumb and index finger to Alys' grandfather's chin and gently opened his mouth. Then, without ceremony, she brought the pipette over his tongue and squeezed out three painstaking drops of the Essence. As soon as that was done, she lightened her grasp on his chin, closing his mouth slowly so as not to disturb him before releasing the man altogether.

"There," she murmured as she resealed the vial, glancing over at Alys. "All done. He'll be at peace soon." Ana rose from the bed. "Would you like some time alone with him, Alys?" she asked politely. "To say goodbye?"

The granddaughter quietly replied her assent. Respecting the young woman's wishes, Ana silently returned the vial of Nightshade to its proper place in the cabinet and then adjourned to the antechamber that she and the Maester used as a laboratory, assuring Alys that she was just a shout away if either she or her grandfather needed anything.

An indeterminable amount of time later, while Ana was brewing milk of the poppy, Maester Luwin joined her in the antechamber, looking a touch flustered.

"Hello, my dear," he greeted her, smiling in approval as he saw that Ana was hard at work. "I'm very sorry I couldn't come sooner, but your father had urgent need of me and I figured that you would get along fine here without my help."

"It's all right, Maester Luwin. All is as well as it can be," came Ana's amiable reply. Privately, though, she acknowledged an irrefutable sense of relief at his presence.

"'As well as it can be?' Are you referring to your patient?" Luwin asked, the wrinkles of his brow creasing in concern.

"Yes," his pupil responded, keeping her eyes on the vat of milk in front of her. "You might remember him," she elaborated, "he's a farmer with a tract of land not far south of Winterfell. If I'm not mistaken, his name is Alistaire, and that's his granddaughter Alys with him. It's heart failure, Maester Luwin. He's fading quickly," Ana told her mentor, keeping her voice low so that Alys would not overhear their conversation. "With his granddaughter's permission, I gave him Essence of Nightshade. Three drops." Her eyes abandoned their observance of the pale liquid in favour of Maester Luwin's saddened gaze. "It shouldn't be long now," she concluded, a somber note to her tone.

"Well, now. I'm sorry to hear that Alistaire is in such a sad state. He's a good man; he doesn't deserve to suffer. You did well to offer Alys the option of Nightshade, Ana," Maester Luwin praised her, and the girl granted him a tired half-smile of thanks. Then, the two went about their work, and that was the end of the conversation.

Over the course of the next few hours, Ana periodically returned to the infirmary, checking in with Alys and monitoring her grandfather's condition. The Essence of Nightshade seemed to have done the trick; the tension that had once tightened the lines of the elderly Alistaire's face was gone, and his expression was peaceful. For the most part, though, Ana simply passed the day in the antechamber, brewing various remedies to keep herself busy.

And then, it happened.

As she was turning towards the back shelf to find a piece of equipment, a sudden, staggering wave of _emptiness_ swept through Ana's body, utterly jarring her. Completely taken by surprise, the girl fell to her knees, clutching her head in her hands as the _nothingness_ invaded her mind, howling and silent all at once, totally overpowering.

She didn't hear Luwin calling her name, didn't feel the soreness of her knees as she rocked against the stone floor, didn't see Alys entering the room, fresh tears on her cheeks and fresh loss in her eyes.

...

Ana never found out whether it was seconds or minutes that she spent there on the ground in the antechamber. After the fact, she hadn't asked, and the phenomenon that had gripped her hadn't allowed for any sense of time.

All she remembered of her lapse was the desperate need to regain her senses and the powerlessness of that seemingly never-ending moment.

When Ana finally, mercifully came back to herself, the first words she heard were Alys', and they shook the Stark girl to the core, bringing terrifying enlightenment.

...

"Maester Luwin, milady...it's done. He's gone."

* * *

A year or so after that day, on the afternoon when Bran went with his father, his brothers, and the rest of the Starks' men to witness the deserter's execution, an echo of that same emptiness whispered its way up Ana's spine as Ice's blade cleaved the boy's head from his shoulders.

And even in the safety of the vibrant glass garden, surrounded by life that she'd coaxed from the soil...Ana couldn't help but shudder.


End file.
